Inside A Library
by Owl Knight
Summary: Shiomiya-san and Kumagawa-kun never talk. The books do to speaking. KamiNomi/Medaka Box, Kumagawa/Shiori.


The best thing in the world is silence. An oppressive silence, one that presses upon your shoulders and chokes the life out of your lungs. The best kind of noise is none. This is their words. Words, sentences, would ruin their already fragile relationship. She loves the quiet world inside. The world is even better with him.

There is no best thing in the world. At least, not for him. He thrives inside the negativity though one good thing cannot hurt him, really. He enjoys the lifeless sound of pages turning. It's unnaturally pleasant. He doesn't dare speak. Strangely, he doesn't want to scare her off. The library is beautiful, anyway. There isn't a reason why he shouldn't be here. He wants to laugh, but he restrains himself. The need to chase her away doesn't exist.

She is handed another book. Nihilism, really, odd boy? She sighs, the noise staying only inside her head, never leaving into the ears of him. She gives him a strange, confounding volume she found. It contains comics. She thinks he would enjoy the book immensely. She starts to read the book on Nihilism. People are so curious.

He flips the volume to a random page. It doesn't matter that he doesn't know the plot or the characters or even the language by the looks of it. He's nebulously interested in the silly glasses wearing boy. The book is rather slow and text heavy (...he laughs internally this time) and it has a continuation that has yet been published in the origin country. Making sense was never his forte. He looks over at her. He attempts to repress his smile. He fails, naturally.

She looks at him, smiling in that fake way of his, and she quickly becomes unnerved. A blush rises over her cheeks, and she averts her gaze. Books never caused her to become flustered. Ahhh, she taps the open paper pages against her forehead. She peeks over them to stare at him for one more moment. Her eyes refocus back to the nonsense words. What is she even reading? Does it matter at this point? Damn you, Nietzsche, sneaking ideas into her brain like that.

He glances back at the weird comic about some videogame. The people are so amusing even if it's only their actions. People are so amusing without noise. Girls like her are such a jewel, really. His attention quickly switches from the comic to staring at her. She is adorable. There are no words to describe the extent of how adorable she is. She is cuter than Anshin'in. He doesn't care how utterly stupid that sounds; he is an idiot who reads Shounen JUMP (not Shounen Square, antihero brat). He has the right to be an idiot for some shy, mute girl.

She can feel him stare at her. It crawls up her spine, unpleasant and invasive. It's as if he's reading her mind, searching for her secrets. She values her privacy quite a lot. Strangers (odd, insane, negative, evil, wicked, ignorant, apathetic, unfettered and there are more but none of them fit him) like this one are people she needs to avoid with all her power. She can't; it's not because he's a "bad boy" or anything like that. He's...She concentrates on the book, blanking all her other thoughts. The silence is serene, calming and smoothing down her sparked nerves. It's beautiful, the eloquent, elegant words on the paper pages, speaking clearly to her. How do others do without the quietly typed sentences?

He continues to watch her read. He almost wants to talk, to know her name. He can't even guess; he is so pathetic when it comes to her. He abandons the American manga on the floor. He can't even comprehend it so skimming through it is pointless too. Her hunched shoulders are proof that she can process the kanji in the book. The thinness of her form shows how much time she commits to books. He truly loves the tomes, the texts, the grimoires, and he's starting to run out of words for book. He needs to go back to his apartment, but he doesn't want to. He wants to waste time here, reading and gazing at some librarian like a lovesick fool.

She doesn't understand any of the printed words. She can still feel him stare at her. She loses all concentration; she pretends she's still reading. His stare is making her feel like her skin was removed and all she can feel are nerve impulses racing and running to and from her brain, trying to wrap around the idea that this scary, strange, insane, indifferent, violent antihero (that fake smile showed everything and his taste in books revealed all she needed to know about him) might like her. She looks up from her book now, and gazes at him with a bright red face. His is average and unassuming; its makes him so handsome. His personality terrifies her. As charismatic and charming as he is, he is also a little bit unbalanced and romanticized. That translation of that vampire romance from first person point of view...She was traumatized by the desecration of words; he enjoyed it. The manga he brings in to show her too...He loves his happy endings with a side of horror.

He locks eye contact with her and genuinely grins. Her gaze reverts downward to the hard floor. She is so cute when she's shy. That is to say, all the time. He picks up the book nestled in her lap and flips it open. Oh Nietzsche, what a wonder philosopher you were. He's happy she is reading about nihilism; he's happy she's open to his ideas. Maybe he's in love, maybe he's not. All he knows that tomorrow this small town in the middle of Japan will be his home so he can learn more about nihilism. He's going to teach this to people one day. He reads a couple lines.

"_The joyous necessity of the dream experience has been embodied by the Greeks in their Apollo: Apollo, the god of all plastic energies, is at the same time the soothsaying god, He, who (as the etymology of the name indicates) is the "shining one," the deity of light, is also ruler over the beautiful illusion of the inner world of fantasy. [...] But we must also include in our image of Apollo that delicate boundary which the dream image must not overstep lest it have a pathological effect [...] We must keep in mind the measured restraint, the freedom from the wilder emotions, that calm of the sculptor god. His eye must be "sunlike," as befits his origin; even when it is angry and distempered it is still hallowed by beautiful illusion [...]"_

She gets up from the cold, hard linoleum floor of the college library. She peeks over his shoulder, reading the same lines (unknown to her). The words are beautiful, weaving a shimmering image that shines and reveals all the ideas of a great philosopher. Or at least that's what they are supposed to say. Dissecting literature is part of her major; she needs to know this. She is in love with the words. And maybe with him, but she doesn't need to admit that. He doesn't live here, and she doesn't know a thing about him. And she is not in live with him; she's in love with his artistic, childish, immature, wishful, fanciful choice of stories. She is not in love with a boy who smiles with an artificial edge; she is in love with a boy who can't stay within the bounds of reality. She doesn't want change despite the desperate need for it.

He smiles brightly at her. No bracketed words with this girl. Even though his smiles are frauds, he doesn't feel like they are. He goes back to the book. It's very rare when he knows what the author is saying, but this is what he's actually studying. He knows this stuff pretty well. He is so tempted to slam the book and then burn it to make her angry. She would hurt him so badly; he would enjoy it, and he would love her a thousand times more than Anshin'in if that was possible. That's how insane and crazy he is and everyone knows including her. But he wouldn't since he may have fallen in love with some messed-up mute.

* * *

><p>The tall, majestic building practically woos him. It's beautiful, really. He steps inside, and he sees the rows of books. He doesn't particularly like reading, but he doesn't hate it. He's actually looking for something, anyway. His major involves improving on the work of others. He loves philosophy despite the fact he's kinda really stupid. He sighs, amused, and hunts for a librarian.<p>

He finds one, small and cute with hair ribbons. He squees. She's just so adorable! She backs up when he makes the odd noise, obviously taken aback. She bows and mouths a silent "How can I help you…" He's thrilled and hands over a booklist. She leads him toward the correct shelves. She has a graceful gait, reminiscent of something utterly breathtaking. And right then and there, he might have walked into a trap.

He returns far more than he needs to, and borrows more books than just nihilism, existentialism and other philosophies. Then he brings books in to show her instead. One Piece, Yu Yu Hakusho, Sket Dance and thousands of other manga. Then they start to trade stories. She shows him the world of classics and mysteries and the next world that only she knows about. He gives her things with happy endings, the underdog stories and the world of black thoughts.

They are very friendly toward each other despite their differences and their insecurities.

In the end, there is only silence between them. Then one day, she works up the courage to say her name, a whisper of the songs of angels. Then he replies, without the brackets, and it sounds like Chopin's masterpiece to her.

* * *

><p>A couple words turn into winding yarns about anything they can think of.<p>

Moments with each other turn into dates inside a vast archive of books.

The best thing in the world is silence, truly. Comfortable with the person you love kind of silence. The truly quiet silence that no one notices. The best kind of noise is none. The words that they use are quiet, from books. It strengthens a strange, unusual relationship they have. The quiet world they inhabit is something they only know about. She can speak just a little bit with him. He can speak without his brackets. It'll always be enough.


End file.
